A brief extract from my old copy of Roget’s Thesaurus:
“Falsehood: falsity, falsification, mispresentation, deception, untruth, guile, bad faith, lying, mendacity, perjury, false swearing, forgery, invention, fabrication.
Untruth: falsehood, lie, story, thing that is not, fib, bounce, crammer, taradiddle, whopper.
Deceiver: dissembler, hypocrite, sophist, maxworm, Pecksniff, Janus, serpent, snake in the grass, cockatrice, Judas, wolf in sheep’s clothing, Molly Maguire, jilt, shuffler.
All equals = politician.
An ex-SAS man handed thousands of politicians’ expenses claims to ’The Daily Telegraph’, and for the first time ever the full scope of the greed and corruption of parliament was exposed to the public gaze. It was plain that the situation couldn’t go on. That things would have to be done. Some compared it to the signing of the Magna Carta. Even bigger optimists claimed it was the end of centuries of political greed and corruption. Sadly, an old cynic like me isn’t so easily convinced. It was simply that, for the moment anyway, we had the piggies of Westminster on the run, all desperately squealing that they were innocent that things would be better from now on (honest!, and some even frantically handing back their ill-gotten gains. It was starting to feel as though we, the British electorate, were a battered wife listening to the pathetic excuses of a brutal husband the morning after another night of bingeing and bashing. “It won’t happen again I promise you, I’ll make it up to you, just give me another chance, that’s all I ask, I’ve changed, I really have …”
And oh Christ, just like the battered wife, we wanted to believe this garbage, but we knew in our heart of hearts, it most likely wasn’t true.
And still, every day, their disgusting expenses claims were published. Moats cleared, chandeliers re-hung, tennis courts resurfaced, swimming-pools cleaned, non-existent mortgages paid off, dry rot treated, £2000 home cinema systems, light bulbs, trouser presses, loo seats, porn films, even fucking horse manure, all paid for by us peasants. Whilst at the same time us peasants had been lectured to incessantly by these greedy, hypocritical, grab-all bastards that we had to tighten our belts, economise, that hard times were here.
One day, I had been standing in the queue at the mini-mart, watching as an old man painstakingly counted out a few coins from a small collection he kept in a plastic bag. When I got home it was to hear a self-pitying politician’s wife on the news wailing that “It’s not fair!” No it’s not. You bitch.
Life of course still went on. Mr Beresford had organised - with a rash disregard for the British weather - an open-air arts and crafts exhibition in Fobbington park for a week in May, and had roped me in to help dish out leaflets to any unsuspecting passers-by.
Needless to say it rained on and off all week. I could’ve told him that was going to happen.
The leaflet job was my punishment for refusing to take part in the exhibition. But then you see, I’m a sensitive little soul, and I would rather lick Gordon Brown’s balls than have to stand patiently by and listen to someone slagging off my hard work right in front of me. Also I objected to taking part when I heard that one Shirley Brown - who turned out to be the “frigging” American I had met at Chantley Stones - was to be showing off her knitting designs.
“What’s knitting got to do with art?” I said, snottily.
“It is an arts and crafts exhibition, Gray”, said Mr Beresford, in his patient voice “And Shirley’s designs have awed quite a few people all over the world. You should take a look at some of them”.
“I hope I haven’t become such an old handbag that I have to be awed by knitting!” I said.
He shook his head sorrowfully, and I found myself handing out leaflets, whilst watching a fellow artist desperately trying to protect his little sculptures (which looked like squirrels impaled on candy-floss sticks) from the next downpour.
Two elderly ladies strolled up, and stood looking at a tailor’s dummy wearing a lurid, Noel Edmonds-style multi-coloured knitted jumper (presumably one of Shirley’s creations) for some time in silence.
“This expenses scandal”, one of them eventually spoke, as they strolled away again “If anyone else did that they’d be sacked”.
“Or up in court”, said the other.
Back at the old homestead we were accosted by Xanthe again, who announced that she was going to work for the local Liberal Democrats in the run-up to the European elections next month, and would I help.
“No”, I said “I’m as disillusioned with them as the others. They’ve proved they’re no better”.
“But I can’t bear the thought of them coming in behind UKIP in the results”, she said “I think UKIP are such a bunch of male chauvinists! They don’t approve of women working”.
“At this moment”, I said, trying to get into the house so that I could change out of my wet clothes “I would vote for any party that didn’t approve of MEN working!”
Misty followed me in.
“There’s a leaflet from the BNP on the mat”, he said.
“Oh you”, I said.
The perfect end to a perfect day. NOT!